Thoughts that come while lying on the ground
 I.
 
 From a pine scented, 
 needle-soft forest bed
 a bald eagle’s whistle draws 
 my eyes skyward, to paint-speckled clouds. 
 
 II.
 
 In rainwet soil, we bury seeds to sprout
 and plant bones for their last sleep.
 The difference between life and death
 
 is six inches or six feet.

   
 Things that make me feel better

 A palm on my forehead
 stroking brow to crown,
 my hands cupped around
 a hot mug of honey-kissed tea,
 the suffused glow that is light
 and dark just after a storm
 before a rainbow;
 
 the ocean lapping 
 at my shoulders while I rock
 in her salted healing, a swing’s
 skip-jump-drop matching
 my stomach as I pump past
 Orion's Belt, my cat stretched
 sleepily from my sternum to my lap;
 
 joy that dawns on strangers’ 
 faces as their eyes are pointed
 to a wood stork flying overhead or
 an owl perched at eye level, 
 off a dirt path;
 
 the leftover scent of a campfire 
 on last night’s sweater 
 
 and the surprise song of a wood thrush.
   
    
 Parts of her are scared to death of endings, still

 Cracked apart like ribs of romaine
 lettuce ripped open by a Finochietto
 retractor, the center of her broken chest
 throbs with Kinkadian light, highlighting shadows
 on the edge of a past she hasn’t left behind.
 
 Thick braids, a boundary blocking
 night terrors that choke and bully
 her into daytime nightmares of people
 leaving her, fading down narrowing
 hallways that throw echoes of goodbyes
 
 into every new hello. 

 The tension was elastic, I bit my tongue so hard it’s sore

 Nail-bitten sighs slip
 from the shaky faucet
 of my clenched lungs
 
 a man’s voice, one I know,
 cracks from the back seat 
 whispers carry in the music-less 
 
 car as I chauffeur 
 this couple who remind me
 of myself or my parents in years past
 
 my mind creates scenarios
 far more dire than reality
 as these two young people
 
 resolve their small misunderstanding
 while I reel in child-like terror
 waiting 
 
 for everyone to get divorced
 or break up 
 
 with me.



  
   

Tracee Clapper lives with her family in Charleston, SC. She spends time in and draws inspiration from nature. She’s been published in The Blue Nib, Poppy Road Review, Spillwords, and has an upcoming piece in Young Ravens Literary Review. She writes to heal her soul and those of anyone else within whom her work resonates.